Goat

“Thought you were alone,” I say to my cousin.

“I am.” He stuffs pizza in his mouth and puts the box in the fridge. There are footsteps down the hall, click-clack, like high heels. “Oh. That’s Henrietta.”

“Who’s –”

“A goat. A friend’s goat. Watchin’ her for the weekend.” More click-clacking. “Yeah, can’t let her outside ‘cause she climbs on the condenser. Poops in it. She climbs on everything in here too. Kitchen table. Couch. Likes to be on top of things, I guess. But I fixed it.”

“How’d you fix it?”

And in walks a goat wearing high heels.

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